


getsomehiddles.net

by fayegrove



Category: The Avengers (2012), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, Fluff and Smut, Roleplay, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayegrove/pseuds/fayegrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After returning home from filming, Tom stumbles across the rather extensive collection of fanfiction regarding himself on your laptop—much of it written by you. He decides that it is high time you own up to your fantasies and, what’s more, that perhaps what you need is to broaden your horizons a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	getsomehiddles.net

**Author's Note:**

> _”Then he has slipped his arms from around you and, hands on your shoulders, pushes you roughly back from him. His eyes have taken on a glint that you have only ever seen on the big screen and in your imagination; without even realizing it you are backing slowly alongside the bed. “Tom, this—this is silly,” you laugh a bit hysterically, still reeling from embarrassment even as cinders kindle deep within you.”_
> 
> A request from [thfrustration](http://thfrustration.tumblr.com) and not at all serious in nature, being one of the few crack fics I've ever written. Also on [Tumblr](http://tomsdarling.tumblr.com/post/46112576210/getsomehiddles-net).

Sunshine warms Tom’s face, illuminating his closed eyelids and rousing him from sleep. Moaning, he stretches his arms and legs luxuriously in the king-size bed and buries his face in his pillow before letting the whole of his body relax into the mattress again. Rolling over so that his back is to the window, he chances a glance at the digital clock on the nightstand: it reads just past eight in the morning. Groggily rubbing his face, he rolls over and reaches his arm across the bed to drape over you, only to find empty, tousled blankets. His eyes open in surprise and he takes the note resting on your pillow.

“Dear Tom,

I’m so sorry to leave before we could talk, I had to go into work this morning to cover the science fair when Diane called out sick. You must have gotten in late last night so I didn’t want to wake you. I should be home around 5:30 as usual. I love you, so glad you are home and can’t wait to see you!

Your Darling

P.S. I made muffins. They are in the oven.”

Grinning to himself, Tom rolls over onto his back and reads the letter a few times over just to see your handwriting. Each scribbled letter is like a friendly little wave, easing the ache of homesickness that always builds over the course of his lengthy film shoots. He lays there for a little while, unused to having the freedom to get up and move whenever he chooses rather than having to abide by a rigid schedule. After a while he slides out of bed and walks naked over to the dresser. Opening the top drawer he pulls out his favorite, blue and grey plaid pajama pants and pulls them over his legs, enjoying the small comfort of well-worn cotton as he heads into the master bathroom.

While he’d been gone you had certainly made sure the flat stayed squeaky clean, and even redecorated a little he noticed, his eyes taking in the new sky blue towels, rugs and shower curtain. The two sinks were still clearly divided and he could tell that while he’d been gone you’d not used his side at all, seeing as how it looked just same as when he’d left. Smirking, hoping more than anything you’ll at least call to say hello while on your lunch break, Tom washes his hands and follows the hallway into the kitchen.

Just as your note promised there is a covered platter in the oven. Tom lifts the lid and is immediately ravenous at the aroma of his favorite banana nut muffins; he grabs one and takes a huge bite from the billowing top. They are still warm and he groans appreciatively, snatching a second before making his way over to the sofa, upon which he promptly collapses on then. He then grabs the remote from the coffee table and turns on the LED TV.

Tom spends the next hour being gloriously lazy, flipping between news reports, talk shows, and even the occasional soap opera; with the latter he had particular fun muting the volume and trying to deduce what plot point was unfolding. He is just finishing up his second muffin and wondering which man had impregnated the socialite’s daughter when he hears his text alert go off from across the room. Tom nearly flips off the couch in his excitement, running pell-mell to the counter where he’d left his phone the night before.

A huge smile spreads on his face when he sees that the text is from you, begging for him to sign into your email on your laptop and mass message the RSVP reminder to the wedding contact list. A warm glow spreads through his chest while reading your words and he longs to see you, promptly sending a return text saying he would do whatever you asked of him. Making a quick pit stop to grab a third muffin, Tom hums to himself as he walks into the second bedroom, which you had both unanimously chosen to convert into an office.

The room is by far your favorite in the flat, he knew. The walls were lined with bookshelves and there is an enormous window that overlooked London. There you can gaze out at the passing cars and twinkling city skyline while sitting at the desk and grading papers. Tom plops down in the high-backed office chair and opens your laptop, finishing the last few morsels of his muffin while waiting for the main screen to load. When it does he is greeted with a new wallpaper that you must have just recently swapped to: a picture of the two of you from your weekend together in Rome just before he’d left for America to begin filming Only Lovers Left Alive. The sight brings a fresh smile to his face and he double clicks the Chrome icon; up pops Google and he places the cursor in the address bar. The moment he types “g” for Gmail he is greeted by a suggested url that startles him.

Getsomehiddles.net?

More shocked than anything else, Tom selects the highlighted link warily. Immediately his eyes are assailed by a logo of himself in one of his more provocative photo shoot poses, along with a title that reads “Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction Database.” What surprises him most is seeing that a user is already logged into the website, a one “lokiisourking.” Half a grin forming on his lips, Tom clicks the profile link. The member has rated over three hundred stories thus far and written twenty two of their own, the basic information reads. The user’s given first name is, to Tom’s growing amusement, the same as your middle name. The icing on the cake is when Tom realizes that the account had been created in 2008, a whole two years before the two of you ever met.

Unable to resist and knowing full well that if you had any idea what he was doing you would chastise him into next week, Tom clicks on the most recently favorited story, ominously titled “Craving Subjugation.” He leans back in the chair as he reads, his eyebrows slowly moving upward on his forehead until his eyes are wide with surprise. He bursts out into a slightly embarrassed laughter, one hand covering his mouth as he continues to scroll down the page. When he finishes that story he moves down the list to read the next one.

After a half hour of perusing the fanfictions marked as your favorites, Tom changes gears and swaps to the stories that you yourself wrote. He starts from the first chronologically listed and then slowly works his way through them. More than once he realizes--with an ensuing pang of guilt--that what he is doing is truly no better than reading someone’s diary, yet he cannot bring himself to stop. Each story is written with such passion and need that he finds himself sucked into the words, amazed at the skill with which you narrated tales. He’s never known you to be an amateur author; that was certainly one side of yourself you had made sure to keep well hidden from him.

Hours roll by and the only breaks he takes from your stories are to go to the bathroom, get some food, or stretch his legs by walking out onto the balcony with a mug of hot tea. On one such intermission Tom begins to mentally catalogue the underlying themes of all that you had written and seemed to enjoy reading in regards himself. Most of the stories all dealt with passion and love rather than straight up sex (fan fiction of which, Tom had to admit, he was aware existed on the internet). Each one of them had struck a nerve in him and he’d wondered how on earth you had managed to hide so well from him the fact that you had known who he was when you first met.

The memory of that night was forever etched into his heart, and he remembered fondly how he had been speaking to an interviewer on the red carpet one night before noticing you coming down the stairs of the restaurant next door. Dressed in an ivory, silken dress that fell to just above your knees and your hair falling loosely around your shoulders, you were a vision of beauty the likes of which he’d never seen. You were so exquisite that you had literally taken his breath away, leaving the interviewer to flounder for a few awkward seconds before finally asking Tom if was alright. He had no choice but to shake himself and answered the interviewer’s questions before politely excusing himself and making his way to where you stood, chatting animatedly with a group of friends.

“Excuse me,” Tom interrupted your conversation and, when you turned to look at him, he saw you nearly jump out of your skin. Now that he dwelled on the endearing reaction he knew he should have had an inkling then of what it meant, but all he had been able to focus on was the startling shade of your eyes up close. “I’m so sorry to barge over like this, but I saw you from over there,” he motioned vaguely to where the red carpet was leading into the theatre, “and I had to come over to tell you that you are by far the most captivating woman I have ever seen.”

You merely stood rooted to the spot, cheeks burning crimson as your friends all stared at you in mute shock. Tom watched with a growing smirk as you struggled to catch your breath, finally responding with a quavering, “thank you.”

“I don’t mean to impose but, if you would do me the honor of joining me for the premiere tonight I would be the most grateful and honored man in history,” Tom offered, extending his hand with a glowing smile. He watched with fond amusement as your eyes swiveled to those of your friends in mute pleading, who all waved their hands in encouragement for you to go with him. Swallowing nervously, you accepted his hand and thus ended up attending the London premiere of Thor by his side. From that point on, the two of you had been inseparable.

So why had you never just told him you’d been a fan? Were you afraid of rejection? Sighing, Tom leaves the balcony and shuts the glass doors, returning into the office where there was still one story left to read. This one, he notices, is not merely the only story posted after the Thor premiere took place, but had been published within the last few weeks. Intrigued, Tom clicks the link and finds himself reading a story as unlike its predecessors as possible.

This one was a Loki fanfiction, for starters. To Tom’s astonishment there is nothing loving nor passionate about your writing in this one and, as he drinks in one word after the next, he realizes just how deeply your desire runs. In great detail you’ve woven the tale of a young woman who is taken forcibly, almost brutally by the handsome and frightening Norse god who looks and speaks so like Tom himself. Nothing is left to the imagination and, by the end of the page, Tom exhales and falls back against the chair, stunned. You, his innocent, sweet fiancée, are the author of a story (which he could only guess must be called a “smut”, as that was the category it was listed under) detailing your fantasies rather than confiding in him about them. Tom strokes his chin, thinking. He knows you would never admit any of this aloud and would probably die of humiliation if he merely confronts you. No, he wants you to tell him about the desires. The question is, how?

And then he grins. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out his cell phone and navigates the address book until he finds the contact he is searching for, pressing send and lifting the device to his ear with an ever-growing smile. “Hello, Danny? It’s Tom. I have a favor to ask you.”

 

 

By the time your taxi pulls up to the apartment complex you are positively quivering with excitement. You have not seen Tom in months and you could almost hear your heart thudding painfully fast in your ears as you hurry into the atrium and slide into a closing elevator, pressing the number twelve more than was strictly necessary in your impatience. Bouncing on your heels you twirl your hands together, watching the numbers slowly increase on the level indicator. People get in and out of the elevator as you go, some of them smiling and waving in recognition. You return the gesture but feel too queasy to make a sound in return. What if you’d gained weight since he’d left? You had been eating rather more chocolate than you should have recently but your clothes didn’t seem to fit you any differently… and even if they did Tom would not care in the least—he was the most kind-hearted man in the known universe and saw beneath the surface to internal beauty. Extra weight would mean nothing to him, of that you were certain.

An inhuman sound of excitement is close to escaping your lips when the doors finally open to the hallway of your floor and you half sprint down the hallways towards the door of your flat. With fumbling hands you pull your keys out of your purse and unlock the door, slipping inside and locking it behind you once more.

“Tom?” you call out hopefully. No response comes from the depths of your home and you feel your anticipation begin to ebb like the tide. With mounting sadness you toss your keys onto the counter and make your way to the master bathroom, stopping when you see a note taped to the door.

“Remember the muffins.”

You pull the note off the door and stare at Tom’s handwriting. What on earth did that mean, “remember the muffins”? Bewildered, you enter the bathroom and shut the door behind you, turning on the hot water in the shower. You’d expected him to be home and waiting for you with as much eagerness as you yourself felt; was that a selfish hope? Maybe it is, you reflect sadly. Your fiancé was a busy man. Crestfallen, you strip off your clothes and take a quick shower to wash off the grime of the science fair.

You love your students, you truly do, but being a primary school teacher had its drawbacks: namely ending up covered in the various concoctions of many homemade volcanos, glittery solar systems and fruit experiments gone awry. After scrubbing yourself clean you eye your razor and shaving cream. There was no hint on the perplexing note as to whether or not he’d be home that night, but did you dare tempt fate? The last thing you wanted was for him to end up coming home and find you with prickly legs…again, not that he would care.

The train of thought leads your mind in a very intimate direction and, remembering how it feels every time Tom touches you, feel yourself going weak-kneed beneath the hot shower stream. Even after two years together he still fills you with a need that never quite felt sated, despite the fact that your sex life is extremely active. Very rarely does a day go by where the two of you don’t make love when he is home with you; not even your periods are a hindrance when you have a roomy shower such as this to utilize. These memories are only making your anticipation worse and so you force yourself to concentrate on shaving your legs carefully until you are as smooth as possible. Finally satisfied, you rinse off your skin and then turn off the shower, toweling your body and hair dry before grabbing a second towel for your hair. Wrapping your head in the soft material you open the bathroom door and walk into the bedroom to find something fresh to wear.

Normally you would have simply thrown on your most comfortable pajamas; the time had long since passed where either of you felt shy about bumming around your flat around the other. Call you old fashioned but whenever he came home after long periods away you like to look nice for him, as much for yourself as for him. With such a reunion in mind, you flip idly through the hangers in your side of the closet until your hand touches the straps of one of your favorite summer dresses: a pale yellow, eyelet cotton piece you had found in a boutique on your trip to Rome with Tom. Pulling it over your head—with some struggle due to the towel turban—you turn around to examine yourself in the mirror. Quite vividly you can recall the last night in the Italian hotel room when you were both due to fly your separate ways the following morning… how he had made quite certain that you had your fill of each other before that awful moment of separation was to finally come.

Flushing with pleasure at the memory, you strip off the towel and let your damp hair tumble over your shoulders, tossing it in the hamper before turning and heading back towards the living room. Just as you’re leaving the hallway the sound of the lock on the front door clicking reaches your ears. Immediately a rush of joy surges through your body and you hurry around the bend, ready to jump into his arms—then you stop abruptly, the air sucked from your lungs.

There stands not Tom, but Loki.

Had you not been certain that you are wide awake you might have believed yourself to be in a dream. Tom grins and locks the door behind where he stands in front of it. His hair is not the short, soft curls that you know so well but the long, black locks falling to his shoulders that you had seen only in pictures and in The Avengers film itself. He even wears a similar tuxedo to the very memorable scene set in Germany, consisting of a long trench coat and scarf. Swallowing hard, you manage a nervous chuckle in a vain attempt to sound amused rather than winded. “Tom?”

He approaches you slowly, that same devious grin as usual tugging at his lips and yet—is it just your imagination or does he somehow seem…well, menacing? “Hello, darling,” he greets you lightly, his voice even. “I missed you this morning.” Why was he looking at you so strangely?

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, fighting the suddenly overpowering urge to back away from him. “What—what’s with the hair?” You laugh a bit hysterically, attempting to douse the flames licking at your insides.

Tom tilts his head as he comes to stand directly in front of you. “I asked my friend in town to put these extensions in for me. I thought you might enjoy it.”

“I love you no matter what you look like,” you counter breathlessly, which is a true sentiment. There is not a single look Tom has sported that doesn’t leave you awed. Even so you feel a definite clenching in the pit of your stomach at the sight of him standing before you like this—dressed as the character you had always fantas—nope. Not going there, you stop the thought mid-track.

Tom’s grin only broadens at your quiet words, and he holds his arms out as if to embrace you. For the first time since the first few months when you had made his acquaintance, you feel an odd sort of fear as you walk into his outstretched arms, noting as you do how fantastic he smells. “Sweetheart, how long have we known each other?” he asks in your ear, rocking you slowly from side to side.

You tilt your head back to look into Tom’s eyes, feeling as if you’d abruptly been submerged in icy bath water. Had he forgotten already? “More than two years,” you answer, worry underlying your tone.

“Mmm,” he pulls you more tightly into his arms so that your head is nestled against his chest. “I’m not entirely sure that’s the case… I first met you two years ago, that much is true.”

A ringing erupts in your ears as all other sound in the world is extinguished. It’s not possible. “What—what do you mean?”

“I think you know,” he murmurs, his breath stirring your hair.

Not.possible!

“Did you snoop on my computer?” you blurt out, pulling yourself from his arms and backing away, your heart rate climbing as the suspicions as to what he may or may not have seen sending you into panic mode.

“Well… now, ‘snooping’ is an awfully harsh wor-“

His explanation is interrupted by a shrill shriek pouring out of you as you run your fingers through the roots of your wet hair, staring at him in mounting horror. “You did! Oh my god, what did you see?”

Tom appears to be on the verge of laughter but his expression remains smooth. “Well, I went to type in Gmail in your browser and happened to see something else listed in the drop down list,” he hesitates as your eyes widen in shock, “there’s no reason to be embarrassed!” he assures you, laughing gently as you bury your face in your hands from mortification; you can barely hear him anymore. The living room is suddenly too open, too exposed and so you turn and hurry into the bedroom—with Tom hot on your heels.

“Did you read them?” you whisper as you stop in the doorway, eyes still hidden by your hands.

“Yes,” he admits quietly from over your shoulder.

Your fanfictions; he’s read at least one. God, he’s probably read all of them. Every fantasy you’ve always suppressed so as to keep your boyfriend from finding out about your little kinks and lusts you harbored, they’ve now been laid bare before him. The only sound then is Tom’s shoes clacking on the hard wood floor as he moves to face you, then his gentle hands wrap around yours and pry them from your face. The trembling in your body remains unnoticed until he stills the shivers with his steady grasp, though your gaze remains averted from Tom’s until he speaks soothingly to you, “Look at me.” After a few, tense moments where you attempt to gather some semblance of courage, you lift your eyes to meet his unfaltering gaze. Tom is beaming at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled from the magnitude of his smile. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. I’m flattered that you were a fan before we met,” he refuses to let you turn your face away, letting go of one of your hands so that he may cup your chin and turn your face back towards his, “and I am astounded that you have never once told me any of these fantasies of yours.”

A tingling spreads through your limbs as your knees threaten to go weak. There is something thinly veiled behind Tom’s gentle words that constricts your airway until you begin to breathe rather heavily. The devilish grin has returned to his angular features and he takes a step towards you, his hands straying into your hair to run long fingers through the half-dry locks, a noise of assent rumbling in his chest as he closes the distance to kiss your temple.

“Remember my note?” he murmurs in your ear, one hand brushing the hair behind your ear as the other slides down to rest on your lower back. His attention to you is thoroughly distracting and it takes a few moments for your thoughts to clunk awkwardly into gear: the hand-written note on the door on which he’d written “Remember the muffins.” Not trusting yourself to speak you merely nod your head, to which Tom grins against your ear, the warm breath of his laughter stirring your hair as he whispers, “don’t forget.”

Then he has slipped his arms from around you and, hands on your shoulders, pushes you roughly back from him. His eyes have taken on a glint that you have only ever seen on the big screen and in your imagination; without even realizing it you are backing slowly alongside the bed. “Tom, this—this is silly,” you laugh a bit hysterically, still reeling from embarrassment even as cinders kindle deep within you.

“I know not this Tom of whom you speak,” he replies smoothly, a wicked grin spreading his lips. “Do not pretend you are unaware of who I am.” Your back hits a barrier and the embers ignite as not Tom’s but Loki’s hands press against the wall on either side of your face, your whole body alight with this new, terrified longing.

“Tom, this isn’t funny—“ the stubborn words choke out of you, their vehemence lost within a voice trembling from emotion.

“You will not address me by that pitiful mortal’s name,” he warns in your ear, sending a shudder crawling along your spine. In that moment you know, you fully realize what Tom is doing; the memory of Tom’s note and what significance the word “muffins” was to play in this new game you were embarking on together. For all that he has done in his mission to please you, your already impossible love for him grows exponentially and yet a thrill of terror washes over you as well, leaving you rigid and paralyzed from it when his mouth finds your jaw and begins to nip roughly at the flesh and bone there.

“I—Tom—“ you try half-heartedly to refuse, to beg him to stop this, but then his lips find the soft spot just beneath your ear. Hot breath rushes out of his mouth and warms your skin as he chuckles, making your legs quake beneath your weight.

“Say it,” he instructs, teeth finding your earlobe and tugging hard so that his nose brushes against your temple. For a moment your eyelids close tightly as powerful longing surges through every last part of you, begging for release. Never before had you indulged in any sort of roleplaying, nor had you ever considered asking Tom to act out any of his characters for you, being far too embarrassed at the idea to ever give it voice. Yet you can’t deny that it has been an ache you have always carried, particularly once you secretly went on binges to watch everything in his body of work and saw for yourself just how flawlessly he captured others’ personalities, the little nuances that brought them to life. Sometimes you wondered if he ever wanted to act out characters in the bedroom but you never dared to ask him. Now he has gone out of his way to fulfill a fantasy for you, and it would be foolish to pretend that you’d not imagined this exact scenario hundreds, probably thousands of times…

“Lo-Loki.” The name leaves your tongue in barely a breath but Tom hears it and grabs you by the shoulders, turning you around and shoving you hard against the wall with himself pressed flush to your back.

“Tell me, mortal,” he intones with amused interest, one long-fingered hand sliding up your arm until it splays across your collar bones, “what would you have me do to you?”

A thousand images flash in your mind’s eye like a reel of film on rewind, bits and pieces from the various stories and art you’d encountered in your years of fandom before ever having met Tom in person. Every genre, every feasible plot manifests itself to you in that moment and demands acknowledgement as your fingers dig desperately into the painted wall. Though there is no reason to believe that he would deny you further roleplays in the future you nevertheless cling to this moment as direly as to the cold, hard surface, a particular scenario sifting through the others and standing out vividly against the rest.

“Will you…” the initial words waver and dissipate before the thought can be fully articulated, and you have to swallow and repeat the attempt. “Will you treat me like a servant?” Only a few words in and already you began to regret saying the request aloud, your cheeks quickly flooding with color from mortification. There is a horrible moment where you could swear you hear a laugh form in Tom’s throat, vocalized in a single chuckle, but the moment passes and then you feel your bare ankles pushed wide apart by his foot.

“If I find that another has touched you in my absence there will be retribution, I can assure you of that,” he hisses against the side of your head while one hand slips underneath the hem of your dress and up your parted leg, gripping roughly to your inner thigh. He squeezes it, nails digging into soft flesh as the other leaves your body momentarily, reappearing against your ass as his knuckles brush against it, followed by the sound of Tom’s zipper coming undone. Another shiver runs through you, though this one is laced with anticipation as well as nervousness. Now freed from the confines of his trousers, Tom’s second hand returns to you, this time going straight between your thighs to drag his fingers along your folds. “You shiver with fear and yet your body already prepares itself for me,” he mutters huskily, leaving you reeling with flushed pleasure.

You realize the instant his fingers brush against your thigh that he speaks the truth, as they are already coated with thick lubrication from your own body. The hand gripping your thigh relinquishes its hold and you exhale shakily, idly wondering if you will have a bruise from where his nails had dug into your flesh until Tom abruptly surges upwards into your body at an unforgiving speed. The impact is so powerful that you rise up on your tip toes and then are off your feet altogether, held up solely by Tom’s body weight as his hands hook into the soft backs of your knees, which he drags up along the wall until they are resting in the crooks of his elbows. His own hands the anchoring to the wall as he supports your weight, Tom wastes no time as he begins to slam repeatedly into you.

Though your mouth opens wide at the overwhelming sensations now racking your entire being, it is all you can do to force yourself to continue breathing as Tom (Loki, you silently correct yourself) claims your body with more force than he ever has before. Rough sex is not a staple of your love life—at least not until now, and you are pleasantly surprised by how much you enjoy his far-reaching thrusts and the way your body fights to allow him room within your snug walls. Turning slightly so that you can see over your shoulder, you’re disappointed when all you can make out in your peripheral vision is the side of his new Loki hair, the angle of your joined bodies too extreme for you to truly see the expression on his face.

“Tom, please—“ you begin to plead, already missing the intimate belly-to-belly of your normal lovemaking but only to find yourself rewarded by his hands moving from the wall to grip your hips as he impales you on his enormous length. The pressure against your cervix builds and builds as he holds you there, an agonizing stretching setting your nerves on fire, though you have no urge to put an end to it. Instead of the safe word, what finally escapes from your mouth is the plea of, “Loki, it hurts!” A menacing laugh stirs your hair as he slides out of you enough to alleviate the pain, followed by his fully extricating himself from your body. An acute sense of loss resonates in you as you are dropped to your feet and you are just about to turn around and apologize for doing something wrong when he grips your upper arms and forces you down to your knees, then prone along the hardwood floor.

“From what I’ve gathered you secretly yearn for the pain of my taking you, isn’t that correct?” comes the question in Tom’s voice, though you know right now it isn’t Tom’s at all…It’s far colder, far more calculating and sadistic than the gentle sweet nothings you have grown accustomed to. The sound of Loki’s dangerously charming demeanor coming no longer from just a screen but from your fiancé standing behind you sends another wave of lust crashing over you and you fidget where you lay, repeatedly shivering from the ache of being so abruptly left hollow.

“Yes,” is all you can say, too nervous to go into any detail on the matter—the realization that Tom did indeed read all of those stories on the fanfiction site you frequent bringing another blush to your cheeks. You slide your hands along the cold, glossy surface towards your face in an instinctive move to hide yourself from view; immediately his hands lash out and grip them, dwarfing yours in his own massive fists.

“Do not hide from me,” he commands, lowering himself to his knees on either side of your legs. Once again you feel the rounded head of his shaft pointing directly at your entrance, pressing slightly until a mere inch slips inside. You writhe on the floor, spreading your legs and wriggling your hips in an unbearable need for all of him, only to feel his feet press against your knees and slide them inward so that they are pressed snugly together. Then—still nestled just inside of you—he drives his shaft fully inside.

White hot agony radiates in your core at the painful invasion, your hips narrowed and thus making his already large girth more pronounced than ever. You can feel every slippery thrust of his shaft, every drag of skin against wet skin as Tom ruts into you and then nearly completely withdraws, only to split you in two yet again. Your fingernails claw at the wooden floor as screams of pain pour from your throat, only…only it’s not all pain, as made apparent by the intermittent moans and willful clenching of your walls around him, eliciting groans of satisfaction from Tom. Occasionally he thrusts deep, holding himself against your barrier until you are scrambling more feverishly than ever, gasping and whimpering at the misery and euphoria combined. Only after you begin to pant to the point of hyperventilation does he slide out again, one hand slapping hard against your ass as he does so.

“Do you enjoy your King claiming your body?” he inquires in a tone ringing with cockiness, angling his thrusts downward so that the friction on the front of your walls is unbearable. A familiar pressure is soon mounting until the coil of tension preceding the end forms in your lower abdomen, signaling that the oncoming rush is not far off. You can no longer speak full words, your breaths coming in sporadic gasps as your hot breath fogs up the finished wood floor beneath your head. Rather you nod your head emphatically, arching your hips upward in a silent plea for him to go deeper, harder, anything more than he might be willing to give. In answer Tom grips your ass in both hands and uses it to ground himself as he slams against your hips, the slapping of his skin against yours echoing in the bedroom and pulling guttural cries from you with each insistent thrust.

All at once your undoing becomes imminent; you feel it surging up and then exploding in pulsations around Tom’s imbedded shaft, milking him desperately as he rides you mercilessly through your orgasm. “Fuck,” he hisses, bending over slightly to hold onto the sides of your ribs and anchor your still-shuddering frame in place as he drives feverishly into the walls pulsing so tightly around him. His own release comes not long after, grunting as his semen is expelled rhythmically into your body with each slam against your cervix.

The both of you now spent and gasping for air, Tom slides from between your legs and rolls over to your side, running his feather-light fingertips along your spine. Your face remains hidden behind a curtain of hair until he brushes it aside with his other hand, leaning forward to kiss your cheek and thus signaling the disappearance of Loki. This more than anything else is what bolsters your courage and you tilt your head rather shyly towards him, seeing the broad grin stretching his lips.

“That wasn’t so difficult, now was it?” Tom teases gently as he tucks your hair behind your ear, winning a begrudging smile in return as you inch towards him and wrap an arm over his chest, nuzzling into his neck as he plays with your now-dry hair. “I’m sorry that I invaded your privacy…but did you enjoy yourself, at least?” he adds questioningly, a trace of nervousness underlying his cheerful words. Taken aback, you tilt your head so that you can meet his eyes and, seeing the worry lining his handsome face, you reach up to play with the black hair extensions.

“I’m sorry that I never admitted any of it to you—and this was everything I ever imagined it to be. I only wish that I had been a better actor,” you confess sadly, well aware that you had done little to contribute to the game. To your surprise Tom merely laughs, causing you to bounce against his chest while his left hand reaches around to stroke your hair for a moment, then pulls you closer so that he can press his lips to your forehead.

“Practice makes perfect, darling,” he murmurs, adding more kisses to your cheeks and nose before finding your lips. Then he rests his head against the floor alongside the bed as you curl up tighter against his chest, contemplating the promise behind those simple words as your fingers trace absentminded paths along his sternum.

After some moments a rather wicked grin spreads on your face, which you bury into Tom’s chest. “Perhaps you should keep the hair for a bit,” you mutter, earning yourself another rumbling laugh and a slap against your bare ass.


End file.
